His face all grease, his voice all puff,
His eyes two currants stuck in duff;—
Call thet a man!—then look at me!
Thretty year old and six foot three,
Afear'd o' nothing morn nor night,
The man don't walk I wouldn't fight!
Women is women! Thet's their style—
Talk reason to them and they'll bile;
But baste'em soft as any pigeon,
With lies and rubbish and religion;